


No Need To Shout

by millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 09:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10613880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Dean had a Zanna, too. He just never realized that's what it was... until he meets it again after Sam met Sully.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can finally post here and share my spn_summergen *\o/* I got one of my fave peeps in the exchange to create for and I was so excited and yet so freaked out, lol! This appeared to go down well, speaking of, must go reply to comments :D

Dean feels the snags in the Impala's steering wheel stitching scraping against his cheek as he slumps forward.

What a fucking case. A complete clusterfuck of screw ups culminating in Dean realising that once again his prejudices got another benign magical creature killed. Man, it was so much easier when things were black and white. None of this shades of grey bullshit.

No matter how much white you put in it, it's always gonna come up grey.

He blames Lenore.

No, actually, he blames Sammy for opening his eyes to the fact that Lenore _wasn't_ to blame. Blood lust was a lot more satisfying when the things creeping in the night meant to take a chunk out of you. The John Winchester School of Hunting had many downfalls, but one of its perks was that you were good, they were bad and there was none of this _equal rights for non-evil entities_ crap. Which Dean knows is complete horseshit, it's better being on this side of the fence, being able to spot the good from bad and not blanketing it all under the heading, 'Must be slain', but some days he misses how simple and pure life used to be.

Sighing and rubbing his cheek against cool leather, Dean waits for Sam to compose himself after watching his childhood friend walk away, again. Admittedly, this time it wasn't a decision taken out of either of their hands, and in all honesty the older Winchester can't point fingers at Sully. Not when the Zanna did something Dean never quite managed fully: looked out for his kid brother with no ulterior motive other than wanting to see him smile.

Dean fully admits that the main reason for his zealot-like vigilance over Sam's welfare was originally that he was **not** going to let John down, but as he got older it became like a badge of honour tattooed onto his forehead; Look out for Sammy. Take care of Sammy. Keep Sammy alive.

It's a shame that didn't include protect Sammy's innocence long enough that he had a normal childhood. Then again he's not entirely sure that this life, this bond they have now, would've grown quite so organically without the hunting.

He still remembers that other place, the Djinn sponsored vacation to all points nowhere. Where his life seemed so much better until you scratched the surface and found more filler than plaster.

Stroking the threadbare stitching beneath his cheek, Dean thinks perhaps Zannas are simply your hopes and dreams manifest. Someone, who no matter how you screw up, tells you that it's all possible. Every single bit of the crazy you envisage as a kid. Okay, so he only got a tiny portion of the whole childhood dreaming thing, but from what he can remember he wanted to be a space cowboy, a fire fighter and a fighter pilot, and at four years old that all seems **so** simple and _so_ in reach you don't even question it.

Damn it! This is what happens when they encounter a creature less evil than they're used to. He spends hours contemplating his navel and wondering where in the hell it all went wrong, giving himself crap for stuff that really wasn't his fault in the first place.

Slamming his forehead down against his hands, knuckles white and clasped tightly around the top of the steering wheel, Dean growls and grinds his teeth.

Someone walks gentle fingers down his spine, ghosting softly against his hairline.

Passing it off as an over-my-grave moment, Dean shakes his head and lifts his eyes to the windscreen, wondering where his dopey little brother's gotten to. He's about to wind down the window and holler when a jolt of heat crackles across his palm.

Staring at the handle like it's gonna jump up and throttle him, Dean stabs at it with a fingernail. "What the hell?!"

It's not like he's installed electrics in the car, pointedly refusing to update her, because why fuck with perfection?

Rolling his eyes at his own stupidity, Dean wiggles the shifter just to keep his hands busy and gets another crack of warmth. This one spreads along his arm, finishes at his shoulder as though a sure hand is squeezing it in reassurance.

Dean's not an easily freaked out guy - he's been gutting gory-assed creatures since he was strong enough to hold a machete, but right now he wants to jump from the car and run like fuck, possibly even hide behind Sam because if his stupidly tall moose of a brother is good for anything, it's being used as a human brick wall. "Stop it, Winchester, you're being an Idjit!"

The use of Bobby's favourite insult calms him some, but doesn't completely eradicate the feeling of being watched.

Throwing open the door and almost falling out of the car, Dean tells himself he's simply going to check on Sam, to make sure he's okay after a really hard couple of days. That's it, just checking on Sam, not running from an invisible nothing that seems to want to get a little better acquainted.

Snorting at his own idiocy, he leans up against the side of the car and decides to wait out Sam's need for alone time. That's when he feels an overpowering sense of home - a feeling borne of safety and security and comfort in the dark.

Stepping away from the Impala he turns and stares at her, tilting his head and wondering.... no, _not possible._

It's a car - a hunk of metal and machinery.

Cars aren't sentient and they damn well don't give off feelings of serenity.

Do they?

Except...the case they just worked proved that anything's possible and imaginary friends aren't necessarily figments. Who's to say...

Leaning forward, spreading his palms flat against her heated paintwork, Dean closes his eyes and opens his mind.

Not sure if he's hoping for a response or nothing at all and an extra reason to commit himself, Dean's hit with a slew of memories. They slide across his closed lids, bombarding him with a very real sense of happiness. Moments from his childhood long forgotten, papered over with far more gruesome images that no sane person would choose to keep filed away.

Singing to Sammy in the back seat as he fusses and bothers whilst John stakes out some nest of creeping nasties.

Playing tic-tac-toe on the back of John's seat with a piece of chalk and getting a major hollering for their trouble.

Laying side by side with Sam as they both try and drift off after a shitty day at the office.

Hearing his brother's breathing and feeling his lids droop because Sam's right there, safe and whole and alive.

Opening his eyes and sliding the pad of his thumb across her chrome, Dean smiles. A genuine smile that creases his cheeks and lifts his ears. A smile so wide you can see his back teeth. "Okay, _okay_. I get it. No need to shout."

He hears Sam emerge from the Gas'n'Sip bathroom and pats the Impala's hood, nodding ever so slightly.

Sam sees the broad smile lighting his brother's features and wonders, not for the first time, what goes on in his brother's head. "What's got you grinning?"

Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Nothin'. What? A guy can't smile without there being an ulterior motive? Come on, Long and Tall, let's get outta here."

Sliding in behind her wheel, Dean thinks he's probably been luckier than most, and maybe, just maybe, you don't need a roof and four walls.

Perhaps all you need is four wheels and a blacktop.


End file.
